The Misadventures of an Early Morning
by grimmfeather
Summary: Patience is a virtue, albeit one which the majority of even occasionally sane human beings sorely lack at three o'clock in the morning. Gintoki, Katsura, and the cast navigate a few such dysfunctional ante meridian hours. Humor/Comedy, complete
1. What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

_The Misadventures of an Early Morning_

_Summary_: Patience is a virtue, albeit one which the majority of even occasionally sane human beings sorely lack at three o'clock in the morning. Gintoki, Katsura, and the cast navigate a few such dysfunctional ante meridian hours.

- - - - -

_Lesson 1_: What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger**  
**

- - - - -

Gintoki huddled in a corner, his back pressed to the wall, a glass containing a half-melted, soupy parfait seized in one hand's white-knuckled grip and his bokuto clutched defensively in the other. The menacing shadows of beings with an insatiable appetite to rival Kagura's and an equally absurd amount of facial hair played starkly over the shōji in cinematic contrast, the color-sapped images accompanied by a chorus of moans and groans and the _thump_, _thump_, _thump_ of shuffling footsteps on the veranda. A nervous laugh cracked high in the octaves of Gintoki's vocal cords, and he compensated by cranking up the decibel level and shouting loud enough to drown the pubescent tremor in his own voice.

"W-w-what is this, some campy B-movie rehash of _Night of the Living Zombrows_? Come and g-get me, you bastards! If you wanna get your grubby paws on the w-world's last parfait," Gintoki bit back a genuine sob at that, "then you'll have to go through me first!" he concluded, his yells now verging on hysterical.

_Bang_, _bang_, _bang_ answered the thunderous pounding of fists on the shōji, the sounds more impatient and ever closer with each passing moment. _Thump_, _thump_, _thump_.

_Craaap, now they know where I am!_, Gintoki panicked, squeezing himself further and further into the corner as if he could spontaneously meld into the boards. _Of all the half-baked, big-mouthed ideas—_

The nearest shōji screen ominously rattled open on its tracking to reveal a horde of Zombrows, their forms eclipsed in shadow beneath the light of a stereotypical full moon.

"_Gintoki!_" a voice murmured, close enough that the speaker's breath tickled in Gintoki's ear.

Gintoki's eyes flashed wide in terror.

_Health me! Wait, that's not right. . .help me! Help, it knows my name! How on earth does it know my name?! It's—it's game over!_

But even steeped in such grim prospects and without a Heart Container_[1]_ in sight, Gintoki resolved to defend the lone parfait to his very last. He wound his sword arm tight as a pitcher's on the mound before heaving backwards and mightily hurling his bokuto at the nearest Zombrow assailant.

"_Aaaaah—!_"

"Ginto—_mmmph!_"

Gintoki awoke suddenly to find himself not encircled by ravenous, blood- thirsty and parfait-hungry Zombrows but perched ramrod straight on the edge of his own futon, panting, as beads of cold sweat trickled down his forehead. The blankets had long been flung aside in his nightmare-induced frenzy, but Gintoki's groggily reorienting brain alerted him that his alarm clock was pinched viciously in his left hand's death grip where a parfait had been mere moments before. Gintoki then traced the imaginary trajectory of his would-have-been bokuto, only to find that he had actually transformed his pillow into a makeshift weapon. While still sound asleep, he had apparently managed to nail the invading foe clean in the face with said pillow—_which you have to admit is pretty impressive._ As evidence of this minor victory, a single, oddly lumpy and irregularly outlined silhouette was framed in the doorway, the pillow resting at its feet.

_Well, I can deal with _one_ straggler, at least_, Gintoki assuaged his wounded pride, warily securing his hold on the alarm clock in a vestige of self-defense.

But instead of, "_Nnnnrgh, give mee paaarfaaait_," the Zombrow simply looked at him and said, "I _did_ knock."

Gintoki frowned, taken aback for the briefest of moments at what most certainly had to be a very bad joke, before two and two converged to make four and somebody flicked the light on upstairs. _Oh._

The images vividly hearkened back to Gintoki's childhood recollections of a town shrine festival, when after gorging himself on sweets beneath the dreamlike swirl of color eddying in the warm light of a million paper lanterns, he and Shouyou-sensei's other students had trodden barefoot through a cool patch of grass to gaze in awe at the hanabi. Sensei had regaled his wide-eyed students with thrilling tales of the devious kidnapping antics of Aobōzu and Yama-uba_[2]_, demons who would surely snatch the children away if they neglected to practice and do their chores.

Late that night, suffering a temporary case of sugar-induced insomnia and timidly skirting every dark temple corner with a wide berth for fear of vengeful yōkai_[3]_ (Gintoki was self-consciously aware that in his earlier excitement about the festival, he had neglected to clean the fude brushes like Sensei had asked), Gintoki had tiptoed his way to Katsura's futon.

Katsura was lying awake, staring at the ceiling and apparently experiencing similar circadian complications. He stole one look at Gintoki, who was nervously clutching his pillow and sporting the "_I'm _not_ scared, stupid_" pout, before rolling his eyes and obligingly scooting over. Without further pause, Gintoki had commandeered half of Katsura's futon and two thirds of the blankets with only a smartly kicked shin for his trouble. The ensuing bruise had been a small price to pay for a peaceful night of yōkai-free dreams.

Gintoki squinted through the darkness at the misshapen figure in his present-day doorway.

". . .you're not a Zombrow, are you," Gintoki established flatly, lowering the alarm clock with still-shaking hands and suddenly feeling a tad foolish.

"No, I'm not," the silhouette offered, unfazed as it calmly stooped to retrieve the pillow projectile.

Gintoki cocked his head in bewilderment when the silhouette moved and something squishy subsequently plopped to the floor with a wet-sounding _plunk_. He caught a simultaneous whiff of an incredibly potent rotten smell that reeked of last week's burnable trash. But before the appropriate question could form on his lips—

"Aha! You're still calling them 'Zombrows'!"

A triumphant index finger was shoved nearly under Gintoki's nose, and the revelation hit his sleep-hazed brain like a ton of bricks.

_Zura. _

Of the million pithy remarks and burning questions that simply _begged_ to be voiced, "You look like hell," was the first coherent phrase to slip uninhibited from Gintoki's mouth, quickly followed by, "And you smell like garbage."

"Thanks. I hadn't noticed."

- - - - -

_Notes:_

_1. "Heart Containers": Heart Containers are collected in the Legend of Zelda video games to increase and recover the player's health._

_2. "Aobōzu and Yama-uba": Aobōzu (a blue monk) and Yama-uba (usually a hideous old woman) are traditional Japanese demons known for preying on children. Ironically, a benevolent Yama-uba is said to have raised the orphan Kintaro, who grew up to become the legendary warrior Sakata no Kintoki (yay, Gintama reference XD)._

_3. "yōkai": Japanese folk monsters, as above._


	2. The Little Things Are the Most Complex

_The Misadventures of an Early Morning_

- - - - -

_Lesson 2_: It's the So-Called Little Things That Become the Most Complex**  
**

- - - - -

Over the course of the last hour, Katsura had successfully dislodged himself from most of the foul-smelling muck by way of the kitchen sink's garbage disposal, a hot shower, and a generous dollop of shampoo. After discarding his filthy kimono (Katsura couldn't quite recall what had become of his customary haori), he had donned an old set of Gintoki's jinbei_[1]_. The clothes hung stubbornly baggy on Katsura's slim frame like an oversized nightshirt despite all of Gintoki's multi-knotted efforts to the contrary—_you need to eat more sugar, Zura; it's good for you_.

Now, the two samurai were confronted with the ultimate gauntlet: the final boss battle posed by the numerable gobs of neon-tinted chewing gum stuck fast in Katsura's hair like a silly crown of rubber confetti.

"I heard you can get it out with peanut butter. It's supposed to be relatively painless," Gintoki commented, eyeing the gum clinically and yanking experimentally on a fuchsia-colored wad.

"That's connected, idiot!" Katsura yelped and batted Gintoki's hands away. "And peanut butter?! You want to rub a salty, sticky condiment _in my hair_?"

"Did you even see yourself an hour ago? The grunge look is all the rage now. All the kids are doing it."

"I _told_ you it was just part of my cosplay as a garbage collector. During this afternoon's mission, I encountered Matsuko-chan's dear cousin, twice removed on her father's side, who had accidentally disposed of the family's prized possession, so I chivalrously offered to retrieve it for them," Katsura recounted, sagely nodding in self-satisfaction with his fabricated monologue.

Gintoki, obviously riveted by the story, merely shoved his fingers deeper into his ear canals, delicate eardrums be damned. The inconvenient phenomenon called wishful thinking painted images of his lonely, abandoned pillow, and Gintoki almost, _almost_ longed for the Zombrows' collective company. Katsura, of course, paid his tribulations absolutely no heed.

"Matsuko-chan's cousin neglected to mention, however, that the precious object in question was a giant Densuke watermelon_[2]_, one which had been sequestered in a dumpster for the past week. I couldn't very well refuse her help, you know, since the family has fallen on hard times ever since the recession, and without the melon to sell at market, they were _this close_ to being forced to withdraw poor Matsuko-chan from school to work on the family melon farm in Hokkaido. But all her life, Matsuko-chan has only wanted to be a doctor, yearning to discover the essential cure for the illness afflicting her fath—"

"Who would believe that in the first place?!" Gintoki interrupted, yanking his fingers out of his ears. "There's no way people would carelessly throw away something so important, much less ask a well-known terrorist for help to get it back!"

"You're not listening, Gintoki," Katsura shook his head in disdain. "I see there's just no place for common decency in this country anymore."

"_Shh_, or your idiotic _decency_ is going to wake Kagura," Gintoki schooled his voice to a hoarse whisper, smirking.

Katsura unconsciously took the bait.

"That's a lie. Don't underestimate Leader; she could sleep through a typhoon."

". . ._exactly_ my point," Gintoki retorted, reveling in his own punch line. "You're one of the few who could wake her up."

Katsura's eyebrows narrowed, emerging from beneath gum-fringed bangs. When this ordinarily serious expression's only effect was prompting Gintoki to erupt in a fit of giggles (_I can't take you seriously like that, Zura!_), Katsura finally caved.

"Elizabeth and I were being hotly pursued by an entire squad of Shinsengumi members, and they were no more than a block away from cornering us in a dead-end back alley. We played an impromptu round of jan-ken-pon, and Elizabeth won and took the fire escape to the roof. I lost and hid in the dumpster. End of story."

"You should have just listened to me when I told you to cut it, you know," Gintoki enthused with a condescending shrug. "It's like one giant mop of a bubblegum magnet."

Katsura's expression flatlined.

"And your good-for-nothing perm is one giant mop of a female turnoff."

Gintoki's jaw nearly came unhinged as it plummeted to the floor. Katsura camouflaged the faintest glint of a smug smile behind a robed sleeve and affected cough, not that the ruse fooled Gintoki for a moment. Rather than dignify Katsura's apt statement with a response, however, Gintoki chose to collect his jaw from the floorboards, ignore Katsura completely—_those are words straight from your own mouth, Gintoki, and you know it_—and brush roughly past the other man, sulking his way to the pantry with Katsura's not-quite laugh chasing his footsteps.

Fortunately, the daunting quest to locate and secure a jar of peanut butter from within the crammed-and-cluttered monstrosity of a pantry proved more than enough distraction for the two samurai. Gintoki was also afforded a pointed visual reminder of why _exactly_ he would never again allow Kagura to do the shopping on her own.

"I could've sworn we had some peanut butter here somewhere," Gintoki mumbled, his voice muffled as he probed blindly through an avalanche of sukonbu and assorted sugary snack foods and emerged empty-handed. "I guess we're fresh out. Maybe Kagura declared yesterday 'Giant PB&J Day' without telling me. Better luck next time, eh, Zura?"

A mental exclamation of, _Kyaa,_ _sleep, blessed sleep is in Gin-san's future!_, was triggered as Gintoki's eyes alit on a tray of New Year's mochi cakes, which strikingly resembled tiny pillows to a presently one-track mind.

Katsura crinkled his nose in disgust as he peeled his attention away from an opened jar of miso stamped with an expiration date two years previous.

"Well, there's a convenience store down the block. Just go buy some."

Gintoki excavated himself from the pantry and blinked back at Katsura, nonplussed, until the latter's words could sufficiently compute.

"_Excuse_ me?!" he finally spluttered. "Go get it yourself!"

Katsura gasped shortly and stumbled backwards a pace from his kneeling position.

"We've been best friends—nay, _comrades_ all these years, and you're willing to sacrifice me to the Shinsengumi for lack of a jar of peanut butter?" Katsura waxed dramatically poetic before a captivated audience of instant ramen, one hand clasped over his heart. "You wound me so. I have held our friendship in the utmost esteem, but I now realize the error of my ways. I should take my leave before I impose upon you further. Good night and farewell, Sakata-san. May this be our final parting."

Katsura stood and tossed his hair over his shoulder to execute the "Memorable and Heartrending Exit" moveset (a hidden Easter egg that had debuted in _Bakiboki Memorial 2: Revenge of the Swordfish_), though the smattering of rainbow bubblegum twisting and tangling the silky strands of his hair thoroughly negated any and all of the move's melodramatic potential, making it downright hilarious instead. Still, without advance warning beyond an exaggerated sigh, Gintoki lunged forward to seize a surprised Katsura's arm, used the leverage to heave himself to his feet, and stalked to the entranceway, clumsily yanking his boots on while he hopped to the door and carrying on wildly about _useless samurai who should have pursued careers as two-bit street performers_ and _air-headed, pansy-sniffing terrorists with cosplay complexes_ each and every stumbled step of the way.

Either Katsura brooked one hell of a death wish or had genuinely misconstrued these actions as positive signs, for he possessed the blatant nerve to call, "And, Gintoki, pick up some corn potage Nmaibo while you're out, will you? I used my last stick as a diversion," while waving cheerily from the kitchen door.

In response, Gintoki stormed out without even pausing to shoot mental daggers over his shoulder, boots unbuckled, hair disheveled, and effectively still clad in his pajamas, simply to thwart the nigh-irresistible urge to throttle his _oh-so-very-best _friend.

- - - - -

_Notes:_

_1. "jinbei": Traditional, loose-fitting Japanese nightwear or leisure clothes. Gintoki wears something similar as pajamas._

_2. "a Densuke watermelon": A highly prized Japanese watermelon with a black rind, only grown in Hokkaido. One melon can sell for anywhere from 25,000 to 650,000 yen ($275 to 7,100)._


	3. Like Rubbing Salt in a Wound

_The Misadventures of an Early Morning_

. . . . .

_Lesson 3_: Making Friends Is Like Rubbing Salt in a Wound

. . . . .

None of the street's wayward, early-morning occupants gave Gintoki's odd appearance and even stranger behavior a second glance as he sidestepped the meandering parade of listless drunks and stomped to the 24-hour Oedo Store down the street, his feet pounding the dirt to the infectious beat of, _stupid Zura, stupid Zura, stupid Zura. . ._

The bell dangling from the glass-paneled door of the konbini to signal a customer's entrance clanged like the entire host of a handbell choir as Gintoki wrenched the door open on its hinges. After snagging a plastic jar of creamy peanut butter and a pair of the most crushed, battered Nmaibo sticks he could find from a back shelf—_it's not like you'll reimburse me anyway, Zura_—Gintoki's fingers lingered lovingly over the familiar cover of last week's _Jump_. His own copy of the serial, already thoroughly thumbed and ogled, was lying _safely_ (miracle of miracles) atop the teetering stack in his bedroom.

As Gintoki approached the register, he surveyed the store's pair of other occupants. The first was the bored-looking teenager of a shop clerk who had doubtless drawn the short straw and been consigned to the night shift. The second occupant was the sole patron of the store.

"Long time no see, Yorozuya," came a low, familiar voice.

"Likewise, Hijikata-kun."

The Shinsengumi's vice-commander stood at the counter, clutching a purchased bottle of mayonnaise while shoving spare change from the completed transaction back into his wallet, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. Perceptive eyes raked Gintoki's unkempt form and haggard appearance, sparing a glance for the jar of peanut butter and packages of Nmaibo, which Gintoki had neglected to shove behind his back and out of sight. As for Gintoki himself, his cool-as-a-cucumber façade belied the frantic internal turmoil plaguing his brain.

_Hijikata-kun?! What the hell do you need mayonnaise for at four-thirty in the morning, you moron?! Arrgh, look at the trouble you've caused Gin-san! If Zura hears the Shinsengumi were still out on patrol, I'll never hear the end of it—!_

Exerting the considerable effort required to still his shaking hands, Gintoki advanced to the counter. Hijikata eyed him curiously.

The clerk absently punched a series of numbers on the cash register's keypad. As he bagged the groceries, the kid peered down at the time on his wristwatch before sweeping a knowing, significant look from the peanut butter to Gintoki.

"Got a pregnant wife at home, oniisan?"

Hijikata snorted around his cigarette, intrigued as he observed Gintoki's eyes nearly spring from their sockets and a pink flush tint his cheeks.

"Hah, as if any sane woman would fall for someone with such a rotten personality," the vice-commander interjected, his obvious amusement coloring every word.

Gintoki sputtered helplessly like a fish out of water for a few moments before he could recall his scattered faculties and sufficiently perform the complex function of stringing syllables together into words and said words into sentences.

"W-what kind of a stupid idea is that, you idiot?! Have you ever heard of a pregnant woman craving peanut butter before?"

Hijikata propped his elbows jauntily on the counter and traitorously proffered a vague utterance of, _The man doth protest too much_, his unabashed snickering permeating the brief silence. The kid hastily shook his head in response to Gintoki, utterly baffled by the customer's sudden outburst.

"No? I'll _bet_ you haven't! That's because pregnant women always want ice cream or pickles or something weird like that! _Not_ peanut butter! So go home and ask your mother before you spout off random nonsense like—"

"Then are you finally admitting you have a sugar fetish?" Hijikata suggested.

Gintoki retaliated by pitching the exact change for his purchases right in Hijikata's smirking face and viciously snatching the plastic bag away from the clerk.

"Don't talk like you have the right to criticize other people's condiment fetishes, _Mayora-kun_!" Gintoki barked before swerving on his heel and striding to the exit, whereupon another door met its unfortunate fate and was savagely pummeled open.

"I suppose we all have our crosses to bear," the clerk amended ambiguously, gesturing to Gintoki's retreating figure.

As Hijikata smoothed the scramble of bills and coins on the counter and turned to leave, the clerk demonstratively ladled to his mouth a heaping spoonful of a runny, whitish substance that mysteriously resembled ranch dressing.

Hijikata gagged.

. . . . .


	4. Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Cold

_The Misadventures of an Early Morning_

. . . . .

_Lesson 4_: Revenge, Like Ice Cream, Is a Dish Best Served Cold

. . . . .

"That hurts like _hell_, damn you," Katsura hissed, his teeth clenched flush around the terse, breathy syllables even as the coarse words fumbled across his tongue and trailed a bitter taste in their wake. His fingers clawed at the pillow beneath him, seeking an anchor against a fresh wave of pain.

"_Mmph!_ You idiot perm-head, you promised it'd be relatively painless! . . .s_hi—!_"

Katsura froze, muscles flexed taut as bowstrings, when his well-attuned ears caught snatches of an inexpertly stifled chuckle sounding from somewhere over his own shoulder.

"'Relatively' being the operative word there. You're too tense, Zura! Lighten up, I'll be gentle," the voice snickered in a smug pantomime of reassurance.

Katsura grimaced and exercised a commendable dose of self-restraint, clamping a hand over his mouth and biting his tongue to smother a string of nasty epithets that could have been quite aptly applied to the blasted, effervescent perm-head who had dissolved into laughter again behind him.

Internally, however, Katsura soundly cursed himself for cursing—_forgive me, Shouyou-sensei—_hypocritically swearing at himself all the while for yielding to the discomfort. _Pain is ephemeral, merely a distraction from the present_, he mumbled, attempting to channel a Jedi._ If I center my attention elsewhere—oh! The Famicom is ever my stalwart ally._

Midway through humming the first stanza of the Super Mario Bros. theme aloud, Katsura reeled as he felt a tug, a brutal pull, and finally a full-blown _yank_. He abandoned all prospects of clinging to noble pretenses (i.e., Plan A) and instead resolved to cut his losses with Plan B, which entailed coolly screwing his eyes shut, stoically bearing the pain with minimal Mario vocalization, and duly refusing his tormenter the satisfaction of witnessing Katsura's fragilely metered composure splinter into a billion tiny, microscopic, absolutely _infinitesimal_ pieces.

Katsura consoled himself with the knowledge that the perpetual perm would be the unfortunate soul quite rightly inconvenienced with the task of collecting said miniscule fragments and sloppily gluing them back together once more (possibly at the mercy of Eligo 13's sign point) should Katsura surrender to his baser urges and ultimately happen to _snap_. His internal space pirate cackled maniacally in approval.

A calloused hand scrabbling for leverage fisted harshly at the sensitive nape of Katsura's neck, physically jerking him from his musings.

"_Oops_, so sorry, my hand slipped."

The smirk of sweet revenge was infuriatingly audible. Katsura, his space pirate alter-ego now fuming and ranting and raving, consequently toyed with the option of resorting to Plan C.

"You bastard, you're acting—_ow_. . .pretty high and mighty for someone who practically had a cow over a nightmare about parfait-snatching Zombrows. I've told you time and again that a samurai should only eat simple f—"

_Yaaank._

Plan C immediately ratcheted to an entirely unprecedented level of appeal, and the ensuing temptation was just too astronomically great for Katsura to bear, as if someone had swirled a steaming bowl of Ikumatsu-dono's soba right under his nose. With nary an ounce of hesitation or reserve remaining in his arsenal, he surmised that Gintoki made a well-deserving target for a vicious elbow jab square in the stomach. Katsura therefore acted on this supposition without further ado.

"_Oomph—!_"

"Serves you right," Katsura huffed.

Gintoki audibly choked and doubled over with the force of the near one-hit knockout, his reflexes dulled by the combined lack of sleep and sweets. Unfortunately for Katsura, the man seemed to possess the hack regenerative powers of one of his revered _Jump_ antiheroes, possibly an Espada, and was soon rearing for round two.

"For the love of. . .strawberry milk—! I'm doing my best, Zura! Would it kill you to _sit still_?"

"_Not_ 'Zura', it's—_ouch_, Gintoki! Would it kill _you_ to watch what you're doing?!"

"You know, I wish it would! And _then_ where would _you_ be?" Gintoki's frustration cut a sharp retort accented by the staccato beat of a wide-toothed comb clattering away across the wooden floorboards. "I kindly suggest you recall that _you're_ the one who came barging through _my_ door at three in the damn morning! And then had the nerve to order me to the convenience store for _peanut butter_ like some pissy, pregnant wife!"

"Shove it, Gintoki!" Katsura spat back, the admittedly late hour having failed to spare his patience in its scorched-earth blitzkrieg through formerly unshakeable sensibilities. "I only 'recall' asking a _friend_ for help—I never asked you to be so damn _rough_."

"That so? What a discovery! So now Zura not only _looks_ like a girl, but he _acts_ like one, too. Maybe you'd rather I shove your head in the freezer? It's still not too late for option two, you know!"

Gintoki's conscience chose this moment to spontaneously grow a backbone, timidly but traitorously prodding pangs of guilt through his empty, aching stomach—_now that's a low blow_—until he thoroughly regretted ever allowing those words to leave his mouth.

Katsura, who somehow managed to look hurt and angry and five shades of vulnerable all at the same time, snatched the jar of peanut butter from Gintoki before any further damage could be done. Gintoki obligingly relented, throwing his hands up in defeat. He retreated a few paces to the relative sanctuary and comparative solace of the opposite sofa, whereupon he flopped down heavily and slid a weary hand over half-lidded eyes.

Gintoki sighed, knowing all too well that his normal reserve of humor-tempered sarcasm had been an early, predictable casualty of his extremely rude awakening about two hours ago. _Isn't there some warped code of conduct for these situations?_ _"Friends don't let friends go gallivanting through dumpsters"? No, that's self-incriminating. How about: "Friends don't disturb friends in the middle of well-earned beauty sleep"? It's not _my_ fault I was born this way. . ._

Gintoki rubbed absentmindedly at the base of his neck as he mulled over their predicament. He was sorely tempted to simply say, "to hell with it all", leave Zura stranded in the living room, and go stomping back to his futon and mercifully terrorist-free dreams.

However, Gintoki's resuscitated conscience immediately went to work, nagging and niggling and sowing seeds of guilt until Gintoki knew that such a selfish course of action would make him a shoe-in for the "Heartless Bastard of the Year" award at the season-end recap. He would never be able to live it down. Moreover, abandoning a friend and comrade at the height of a bubblegum-induced crisis would certainly cost Gintoki his spot at the top of the character poll. Now _that_ was simply unacceptable.

Gintoki leveled Katsura with a miserably exhausted blank gaze that only thinly masqueraded as a no-nonsense glare.

"Look, you have three—no, wait, _two_ options. I've changed my mind; I'm not risking running up my electricity bill while you chill your moronic head in the freezer," Gintoki hedged, the strain of the past few hours evident in his voice. "So you can either grow a pair and bear it _like a man_ while I wrestle these knots out with the comb and peanut butter, or I go for the scissors. You'll be back to that stylish Benizakura cut in no time. It's your call."

Katsura stewed moodily for a few seconds further, analyzing his so-called "options" and attempting to ascertain a clear lesser of the two evils. Yet the lesser was not readily forthcoming, prompting Katsura to reflect upon the agonizing duration of the two _entire_ episodes he had spent sans screen time while he grew his hair out post-Benizakura arc. A repeat performance was not desirable.

"Ding ding, time's up," Gintoki interrupted lamely, flicking a booger in Katsura's general direction. "What'll it be?"

"…peanut butter. I think."

"Is that your final answer?"

Katsura frowned, exasperated by Gintoki's relentless needling as his own non-existent patience ticked into the danger zone once more. A patented Justaway explosion lurked in the very, _very_ near future. So Katsura laid his cards bare on the table.

"…look, I have some…_traumatic_ memories of scissors from the last time I went to a barbershop. Some idiot with an afro decided to impersonate the master charismatic hairdresser, and I ended up being chased down the street by Kondou while sporting a haircut like Wakame-san's. Have you ever seen a space pirate try to look intimidating with such a ridiculous haircut? It doesn't work. My men had a field day."

Even in spite of the hilarious image conjured up by his overwrought mush of a five-AM brain, Gintoki commanded the iota of decency required to look mildly sheepish at Katsura's words, although Katsura remained none the wiser to Gintoki's role in that particular fiasco. Gintoki, for his part, had no qualms about taking a few secrets to the grave.

"Just get on with it already," Katsura grumbled at last, relinquishing the jar of peanut butter with all the enthusiasm of a man signing his own death warrant.

"Fine," Gintoki replied, bristling at the ungrateful response. "It's not like I care one way or the other."

"Good," Katsura bit back, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not like I want you to." His expression instantly darkened, as if the words had slipped past his tongue of their own accord.

Gintoki feigned ignorance as he stooped to recover the discarded comb.

. . . . .

Just one chapter left, guys! I'm almost finished writing it (miracle of miracles), so be sure to look for it in the next day or so.


	5. You'll Catch More Flies with Honey

_The Misadventures of an Early Morning_

_. . . . ._

_Lesson 5_: You'll Catch More Flies with Honey than with Vinegar

. . . . .

At six o'clock sharp, the first rays of morning sunlight peeked merrily through the cracks in the blinds, and Gintoki's first impulse, which emerged groggily from a swamp of headache-muddied thoughts, was to catapult off the veranda and pound the cheery sun to a pulp for making his head throb so. Common sense (of a sort) eventually stepped in to quash this notion: _Gin-san really shouldn't blame the poor, innocent sun when this whole convoluted mess is that blasted Zura's fault_. Accordingly, Gintoki's _second_ impulse was to channel his sleep-deprived rage into a more productive outlet: namely tearing the bathroom door off its hinges and pummeling Katsura into 2D for daring to take a twenty-six-minute-long shower on a friend's dime.

Gintoki's intentions were forestalled, however, by the painstaking but necessary ordeal of prying sticky, greasy wads of peanut butter and bubblegum off his fingers with the help of an old rag and some industrial-strength soap. Just as he was rolling up his sleeves and gathering his wits to give Zura an earful about the dangers associated with racking up excessively high water and electricity bills, Katsura deigned to emerge from the bathroom, blissfully unaware of the imminent peril. He was once again clad in Gintoki's spare _jinbei_, his expression weary but content as he absentmindedly patted his damp hair dry with a towel.

Fortunately for Katsura, all of Gintoki's bravado and bluster evaporated into thin air when confronted with the sight of that miraculously, blessedly, brilliantly _clean_ hair. Even in the faint light of a new dawn, Katsura's squeaky-clean locks shone and sparkled like highly polished onyx. There was not a single glob of bubblegum in sight, and Gintoki couldn't help but admire his handiwork. Rather than desiring to punch Katsura to kingdom come, Gintoki was overwhelmed by the urge to ask Zura to whip his hair back and forth like Willow Smith in a Pantene commercial.

Gintoki resisted, barely, and only by reminding himself that he was obligated to maintain his reputation as the _sane_ half of this relationship.

An hour later, after much half-hearted hemming and hawing between them about what constituted a proper breakfast for a samurai, Gintoki and Katsura sat down to a makeshift breakfast. (In all fairness, "makeshift" was the only kind of meal that existed within the confines of the Sakata household.)

When Katsura had put in his order for a samurai-worthy meal of tea, rice, miso, and pickled vegetables, Gintoki had brusquely declared, "We're fresh out of that fancy shit," and plunked a chipped mug of tea and a plate of two onigiri on the table in front of his friend.

After a few long minutes of awkward silence punctuated only by chewing noises, Katsura, gaze averted and mouth lodged shut with a gob of onigiri, mumbled something that Gintoki _almost_ didn't catch: ". . .ahmmsrry."

But Gintoki's selective hearing was finely tuned to pick up on the sound of an old friend taking a voluntary bite of humble pie. He turned to flash a flat-out _leer_ at Katsura, smirking self-righteously. "Oi, come again? Didn't Shouyou-sensei ever teach you that it's not polite to talk with your mouth full?"

Katsura flushed hotly in spite of himself, his eyes now locked with Gintoki's. He gulped stiffly on his bite of onigiri, the rice sticking in his throat and his pride similarly refusing to be swallowed.

"Your rice is dry," Katsura deadpanned.

Gintoki's grin remained wide and impish enough to rival that of the Cheshire Cat. Katsura gulped a mouthful of tea.

"And your tea is bland. How many times have you reused these leaves?" Katsura continued, obviously stalling. Gintoki stubbornly held his ground, his smirk curling around the lip of the strawberry milk carton.

"Fine, you arrogant bastard!" Katsura snapped. "I'm_. Sorry. _About. Last. Night," he said, laboriously grinding out the series of syllables and grimacing with the advent of each word as if it cost him an arm and a leg and his space captain eyepatch to boot. "Are you satisfied now?"

Gintoki swiveled sideways to perch cross-legged on the couch, facing Katsura. "What, no magic words? How about a 'thank you'?" he teased.

"Don't push it."

"Alright, alright. Apology accepted. . .on one condition," Gintoki qualified as his former grin eased into a wry, lazy smile that slipped perfectly to its mark and even managed to color the pair of dead-fish eyes above. "Swear to me, Zura, that you'll lay off the dumpster diving the next time you're on the run from those Shinsengumi bastards. The week-old cocktail of moldy miso, spoilt yoghurt, and chewed bubblegum hardly works wonders for that silky mop of hair, am I right? And I refuse to lose another night's sleep trying to salvage it."

"Agreed," Katsura laughed lightly, the heated ceramic of the teacup warming his palms and gently soothing sleep-deprived, frazzled nerves. "And it's _not_ 'Zura', it's 'Katsura'," he added, invoking the mantra out of sheer habit and really nothing more.

An easy silence settled between them, the moment caught somewhere in the soft shadows of dawn and the steam rising from the tea and the weight of exhaustion when the day had yet to even begin, tempered by the not-_quite_-unpleasant company of an old friend, all set to a soundtrack of Kagura's snores echoing like a white noise machine being held under duress in the closet.

Katsura's eyes drifted up to meet Gintoki's own as the latter munched nonchalantly on his anman. "You're a real idiot, you know that?" Katsura remarked fondly, his words lacking any real bite.

Gintoki simply shrugged. "Birds of a feather, I always say."

. . . . .

When all was said and done, Gintoki and Katsura should have thanked their lucky stars that Kagura was partially blinded by an exquisite case of bed head and wholly distracted by the pestering of a growling stomach when she finally meandered out of the closet at half-past nine, for she remained mercifully oblivious to the pair of deadbeat samurai dozing peacefully on the living room sofa, Katsura's head slumped onto Gintoki's shoulder.

Shinpachi, however, was ruefully awake and alert when he sauntered through the Yorozuya's door fifteen minutes later, calling Gin-san's name and inviting Otose in as she came to collect the rent. A mere fifteen minutes had passed, yes, but Katsura had somehow managed to nestle even more cozily into the crook between Gintoki's neck and shoulder. Gintoki, for his part, had allowed his arm to slide down from its perch on the back of the couch and curl neatly about Katsura's waist instead.

Shinpachi froze in the doorway, completely unsure what to make of the sight of his boss and his old war buddy asleep and snuggling on the sofa. Otose, who was usually a staunch supporter of the analog camp in the endless analog versus digital debate, was suddenly imminently grateful for a little piece of technology called a "camera phone".

With just a few clicks and a bright flash, Otose secured a potent piece of photographic blackmail. She had no doubt that Gintoki would be paying his rent on time next month.

. . . . .

_Notes_:

Happy final chapter! Here's a big round of applause for you, the reader. I hope Gintoki and Katsura's antics gave you a good laugh. Thanks for sticking with this fic since the beginning (which was not-I repeat _not_-nearly three years ago). See ya for the next round!


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